Scenes From Our Next Life
by PSW
Summary: Post-series snapshots. This was originally published as a one-shot, "Like You Were". However, it has turned into a bit of a one-shot series, so I have retitled and will gather them here as they are written. Most have been written as prompt responses.
1. Like You Were

Prompt: Old man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you were. (Neil Young)

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Like You Were**

Joseph married again this morning.

To say I was surprised when he told me last week … I'm not sure that even begins to describe my reaction to his news. I listened as he told me of their intentions, he and his Catalina—partners, helpmates, friends—and wondered how it could be enough for him. Had pain and loss truly so dimmed his passion? Despite my best efforts, he saw the doubt in my eyes, heard it in my voice. It hurt him, that my response was not what he'd hoped.

I thank the good Lord that this youngest son of mine is past holding grudges over unintentional offenses, and that he would have forgiven his old man even without the ham-fisted apology I offered the next morning over breakfast. Joe not only forgave, but smiled and embraced, and I saw that his heart really was lighter than it had been in many months.

Since Hoss. Since Alice.

My son is no fool. He has thought this whole thing through, and he is content with the path he has chosen. Without realizing it, though, he has set himself up for so much more. Watching them together now, hearing their laughter, I believe that soon they will leave behind contentment for happiness. Joy, even. It's there to be found, in the ashes. It came to me not once but many times.

Old man.

I am. I have lived long and full. These last years are not what I had planned—not when I married Elizabeth, or Inger, or Marie, or when I built my Ponderosa alongside three fine sons—but they have a beauty of their own. It reflects in the burnish of April's coat, as Jamie—the son of my heart, if not my body—brushes her until she shines. It carries in the sound of clicking checkers, not Joe and Hoss now but Candy and Griff. I smell it in Hop Sing's wedding meal, which our faithful friend spurned aching joints and slowing steps to provide for his beloved boy. I feel it in the wind-blown dust that settles on me as I sit on my front porch - this beloved land claiming me as firmly as I claim it.

Yet … I see now that I have been looking upon it all with a kind of bittersweet stagnation. I wonder how that happened. It has never been my way. It should not surprise me, though, that Joe is moving forward, making some attempt to shake off the twilight that has settled here. I could wish that my son did not know the pains I endured in my own youth—but he does, and he _is_ my son, and he is only following my example. Old man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you were.

Old man. Yes, I am … but maybe not so old as I have been thinking.

They see me sitting alone here, and they're waving at me to join them. Here comes Joe to drag me along, just in case. My son and my new daughter don't intend to take no for an answer - and I don't intend to keep them waiting.


	2. Younger

Prompt: I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. (Bob Dylan)

* * *

 **Younger**

"I'll see your two, and raise you… three."

Five smooth stones joined the pile on the battered coffee table, and a contemplative silence settled. The fire, the only light in the house, flickered against hair and eyes and the eclectic jumble of offerings heaped at their center. It was an odd time of day—of night? of morning?—for the undertaking, and an odd choice of entertainment for Ben Cartwright's home… but the man himself had only shaken his head in amused affection before climbing the stairs to his bed some hours past.

"I'll see your three." Adam, newly returned from nearly a decade in Australia, added several shells to the pile then settled back into the settee.

At the opposite end of the striped couch, Joe had three bullets ready to go. "I'm in."

"And I." Lina dropped three dried black beans into the mix and settled back, tugging her skirt down to cover her bare toes. After years of knocking boots and guns and bodies off of the heavy piece of furniture, Ben had succumbed to his new daughter-in-law's habit of sitting cross-legged on the coffee table with barely a protest. Joe's second wife had conquered very quickly and without effort a heart already disposed to love her.

"Call?" Jamie squeaked, and Joe recalled with sympathy his own long battle against adolescent voice changes. The boy was perched on the other corner of the table, having been quick to take advantage of Lina's work in that area. Grins began to spread. With a sigh and a low mutter, Jamie dropped a hand on the table which consisted of nothing more than…

"Eight high?" Joe's cackle rang out, quickly muted by a wave from Lina and a glance up the stairs. He smothered the volume, but not the laughter. "You _raised_ on that?" Jamie shrugged, flashing that goofy grin that was half proud, half heartbreakingly shy. "I remember a time you wouldn't have done anything of the kind."

Jamie paused in the act of stealing a few rocks back from the pile. "Well… I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now."

It was meant to be flippant, but the words caught them all off-guard. Memories assailed—a rainmaker tarred and feathered by an angry town; long days on the trail and a vibrant woman cut down by an arrow, leaving a (semi) small, precious gift behind; too many losses one on top of another, aging a battered heart before its time; a father who seemed incapable of love and a late unlamented husband who most certainly was—and for a moment the crackle of the fire was the only sound.

Perhaps they _were_ younger now, having come through it all. They certainly felt it.

A loud pop startled them back to the present. Joe grabbed for a bare toe peeking out from beneath Lina's skirt and she jerked away, stifling her giggle so as not to wake her sleeping father-in-law. Jamie hung backward off of the coffee table to scratch a dozing April behind the ears. Adam shook his head, gathering the cards.

"Whose deal?"


	3. A Good Life

Prompt: Some of it's magic; some of it's tragic, but I had a good life all the way. (Jimmy Buffett)

* * *

 **A Good Life**

She hummed while she dusted. To Ben the two didn't go together, but he had never seen his new daughter-in-law anything less than content in her daily tasks. He had his suspicions regarding her past, and he didn't care for them—Lina was a good girl, and he didn't like to think of her as unhappy or afraid or, the Lord forbid, abused. Joe hadn't told him anything, and Ben hadn't asked. He wasn't even sure how much Joe truly knew. It was none of his business, really, unless and until Lina or his son made it so. Whatever the reason for her perpetual quiet cheer, however, the soft Spanish melodies were a daily balm to his heart as they wove throughout the great room and down the stairs and from above the sudsy dishpan in the early afternoon lull.

He noticed when she fell silent.

For a moment he remained in his chair at the dining room table. (Hop Sing would be livid if he scratched the gleaming wood, but it was the only good place to lay out the pieces of a rifle for cleaning and be sure to find them all again. The cook had gone to town—what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.) It wasn't so much that the song had stopped, he finally decided. All noise of furniture moving and dusting and footsteps had ceased as well. Curious, Ben laid the gun aside and rose, drifting into the great room. He found her sitting on the corner of his desk, studying the photographs of his three wives lined across its edge.

"I hope you don't mind." Lina smiled, lifting the picture of Elizabeth to run a light finger along its frame. "They were so beautiful, all of them."

Ben nodded, an answering smile lifting his own countenance. "They were, thank you. And why would I mind? They're there to be seen."

Lina's cheeks dimpled, and she set Elizabeth back into the row with Inger and Marie. "Does it hurt you to remember them?"

"No," he assured her. "No, it's been a long time. And there were a lot of good times, too, that I have no intention of forgetting."

She nodded, her eyes far away. Ben wondered at the sadness flickering in their depths … but the next moment it was gone. "What a tale you have to tell."

He grinned, allowing his gaze to rove over his three lost loves. His mind took him back to each of them in an instant. "Some of it's magic," Ben agreed softly. Then he sighed, touching Inger's frame. "Some of it's tragic. But," he assured the suddenly solemn young woman before him, "I had a good life all the way. I wouldn't change it."

Her eyes sparkled. "Will you tell me?"

Ben laughed. "It's a _long_ story, and I'm sure you—"

"Not all at once!" She laughed too, brushing past him in a rush of skirts and curls. "Come! You continue with your cleaning, and I will bring us coffee, and you will tell me today of your Elizabeth. The others will have their own days."

He was absurdly flattered. It was a long time since anyone had asked after these particular memories. "Well … if you're sure …"

Catalina paused on her way into the kitchen, flashing that bright smile. "What girl doesn't love a good romance?"


	4. Time and Change

Prompt: The morning sun when it's in your face really shows your age. (Rod Stewart)

* * *

 **Time and Change**

"Hey, Adam. Whatcha doin'?"

Caught out—and by the kid, no less. I stand, looking away from the sluggish autumn stream, and he sidles nearer. Jamie Cartwright. This new brother I'd only met in letters (and only a few of those) until a month ago, when I'd arrived back home after ten years away (the last two of those completely out of reach). The lack of communication had been unplanned, but it had happened all the same—an extended trip through some of Australia's vast rural spaces, a missed letter here, a few wires crossed there … and the next thing you know, I'm standing at the port in Sydney holding a letter from my brother that tells me life is changed forever.

Hoss is dead. _Hoss …_ is _dead_. I still can't think the words without pain stabbing right through me. Joe was married and widowed, all in less than a year. Pa's slowing down. Things have been hard. The Ponderosa is doing okay, they're making out all right, but it would be good if I would come back. He'd about given up on me, but a friend convinced him that there was a lot of distance between Nevada and Australia, and maybe he should try me one more time.

I couldn't even dredge up any annoyance over the distrust screaming off those pages. My little brother—my whole _family_ —had been through a lot, and had heard nothing from me despite repeated attempts. Frustration, anger even, was only to be expected. I hadn't done anything wrong … but neither had they. After two years, what were they supposed to think? I just got on the first ship home, which in any case had been the plan all along.

And life _is_ changed. I hadn't expected it to stand still while I was gone, but I also wasn't prepared for the shock of what ten years had wrought. The land is the same, of course—the hills, the lake are solid, immovable—and I'm glad of that, at least, because I'm not sure how I could deal with all the rest otherwise.

Pa is … old. Old _er_ , at least—lined and thinner and moving so much more slowly.

The house is both too big and too small without Hoss's booming presence.

Joe, my baby brother, is completely grey. He's quieter now, more reflective, though sometimes I still see the old glint in his eye. He's also remarried—that friend, the one who convinced him to write to me one more time. I owe her for that. Lina's good to him, and to Pa, Jamie, Hop Sing (who's also getting pretty slow on his feet). Me. To pretty much everyone who walks into the Ponderosa's yard. Joe made a good choice in her, on any number of levels.

Jamie … he was no surprise to me, of course, but it's odd having a kid in the house again. He has a tendency toward the same types of scrapes Joe used to find himself in, but without Joe's brash self-confidence to push him out the other side. The kid grew up in the back of a wagon with his pa like I did, but I get the feeling that's one of the very few similarities in our upbringings—until _my_ pa took him over, that is. I think sometimes he'd like to ask me about it and doesn't know how.

I'm not the only one still adjusting to my return.

And if I'm honest with myself, my home and family aren't the only things changed. That reflection I was staring at when Jamie found me … I don't often remember that I'll be fifty in a few years, but time doesn't stand still for anyone. _O Time and change! – with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day …_ I'm not as grey as Pa—not yet—but the poet's thoughts are still my own. _How strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!*_

"You okay?" Jamie asks, tentative.

I've let my thoughts distract me.

"Yeah. It's just… the morning sun." I motion to the water at our feet. "When it's in your face, really shows your age."

Jamie frowns, then shrugs philosophically. "I guess so."

He's not old enough yet. And I need to quit dwelling on it.

"Come on." I grip Jamie's shoulder, and he grins up at me. "We need to get back."

 **~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

*From _'Snowbound: A Winter Idyll'_ , John Greenleaf Whittier, 1866


	5. Home

**Prompt: Thinking is the best way to travel. (Mike Pender – Moody Blues)**

* * *

I wasn't expecting any party. I hadn't mentioned my birthday—I never do—and I _sure_ hadn't ever told anybody named Cartwright the date. You do that, and you get somethin' like … well, a surprise party when you turn forty. How they'd managed to figure it out I still have no idea (nobody's talkin'), but I guess there's no stoppin' a Cartwright on a mission.

Time was when I'd have hated this kind of thing—the crowd, the attention. At one time, I might even have just left them all standing there. This, though, was not that time. There was a pile of food on tables in the front yard, and it looked good. I tipped my hat and grinned at the assembly—wasn't as many as I'd first feared, mostly family and the boys from the bunkhouse, but I saw Roy and Clem too, and the doc, and a few others from town including Miss Ester May Bradshaw—and another cheer went up as I swung down and headed for the feast. Joe clapped my shoulder as I passed.

"You're late. We were about to release the hoards, guest of honor or no."

"Joe," I shook my head, heaping on fried drumsticks and Hop Sing's famous mashed potatoes, "a man can't be late to a party he didn't know about."

He laughed, and fell in behind me. More hands thumped me as I made my way down the table, and voices greeted me from all sides. I knew every single person in that yard, and it occurred to me as I looked around for a seat that this was home.

This was _home_.

I had no plans to leave the Ponderosa again ... and that didn't even bother me any. It was the first I realized it—the first time in a long while I'd even thought about my situation—and it should have been momentous for me.

I'm a drifter, and I'd never seen myself ending as anything else.

It wasn't, though—momentous, that is. It was like … well, it was like when Joe tells me something that don't even need sayin' (he does that, even after I've pointed out half a dozen times that I just ain't stupid). It was like somethin' that's just _been_ for so long it don't need thinkin' about. It was … well, anticlimactic. (I got that word from a book—don't tell Joe, because I'll never hear the end of it, but it's in my saddlebags right now. I asked Adam not long after he came home how he'd enjoyed his years away, and he told me he'd decided that thinking was the best way to travel. Then he started shoving books at me. I'd never been a big reader, but … turns out some of them ain't half bad. It also turns out he's maybe right.)

I wondered briefly how long I'd felt this way, and realized two things. One, I didn't know, and two, it wasn't important anyway.

I leaned back into my chair, and waved at one of the boys I hadn't seen for a while, and ate my birthday meal, and just watched them all. Mr. Cartwright was tucked into a corner of the porch, probably hiding from the Widow Hawkins (who'd never been known to miss a party, invited or no). Joe was talkin' with Roy, handin' up bits from his plate to little Maria on his shoulders. Hop Sing and Lina were bickering cheerfully in some combination of English, Cantonese, and Spanish over whose dessert I was gonna like best. Adam and Jamie were squared off in a game of horseshoes against Griff and Clem.

Home. I'd never expected it … but it seems like I drifted right into it all the same. I was forty, and this was family, and I was home.


	6. Wild Sorrow

**Prompt: Don't cross him, don't boss him. He's wild in his sorrow. He's riding' an' hidin' his pain. (Willie Nelson)**

* * *

"No luck. What about ... what happened to you?"

He nodded his brother's attention toward the long, dark figure staring out the hotel window into the evening bustle below. Both were worse for the wear, although he'd only had one fight today—their companion looked like he'd been through the wars.

"Where'd you find him?"

He snorted. "Well, after crawling down half the rat holes in Sydney, I found him two blocks down—Drover's Arms."

"He busted up the Drover's Arms?"

"Just the gambling tables and a good number of its patrons. Most of the glassware escaped, for which his pocketbook will be grateful once he's sober enough to care."

"How'd you get him back?"

He winced, dabbing at his eye with a damp bandanna. "Not carefully enough."

"And he's just been ..."

"Standin' there starin' ever since? Yeah."

"Well, what do we do now? D'ya know what—"

"Don't cross him, for sure." He rubbed his jaw gingerly. "Don't boss him. Just leave him be."

"Did he say what happened?"

"No." He shook his head, hesitated, then thrust the thick envelope toward his brother. "But he had this on him."

A quick glance was enough to fill the other man in. "Aw, no. His brother ... the big one?"

"Yeah."

"And this has been ... almost two years ago?"

"Seems that way. From what I could tell, I'm guessin' whatever letters and wires they sent just kept missin' ... We three ain't exactly been sittin' still these last coupla years."

"You read the whole thing?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable, and took it back. "It ain't like him—I had ta know what set him off."

"And now ..."

"And now we know." He sighed. "And there ain't anything to say or do for him. He's wild in his sorrow. He's ridin' and hidin' his pain."

His little brother snorted. "He's ridin' it all right, but he ain't hidin' it none. Not like that."

The bruises and cuts and torn clothing weren't visible in the darkened room, but he knew they were there. He'd seen them before, all too clearly. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"And there is somethin' we can do." He looked up, and his brother gripped his shoulder firmly. "We can make sure he's on that boat tomorrow. He sure ain't gonna be in no shape to make sure of it himself."

That was true, and a darn good point. He nodded, glancing once again toward their silent friend. "Yeah, there sure is that."

They had come along to Sydney to see Adam off, and he supposed this was one more thing they could do for the man who had been friend and business partner and travel companion for nearly ten years—they could be sure he was on that boat for home.


	7. Chapter 7

He begged off early that night—claimed a headache that was only partly fake and left his family scattered about the great room in their usual evening pursuits. Normally it was his favorite time of the day, this slow winding down … but not tonight. Tonight, the sights which usually made him happy left him feeling instead disloyal and vaguely nauseated. It hadn't been too hard to convince Pa—Ben, Mr. Cartwright—that he needed the extra sleep.

That sleep he'd counted on didn't come, though. Instead he lay staring at the dark ceiling, arms folded behind his head and the occasional tear trickling down onto his pillow. He wasn't crying, not really … but every now and then laughter would drift up from downstairs, and he'd feel a stab of guilt and grief, and his eyes would fill. He was glad when his family—yes, his family—finally made their way to their own beds, but still he didn't sleep and eventually he decided to give it up for the night. Pa would be irritated when he was overtired in the morning, but there didn't seem to be much he could do about that. Things would be okay again by tomorrow night. Hopefully.

Jamie rolled out of bed and padded down the stairs.

He was on the last step when a light rustle drifted from the shadows. Jamie froze, eyeing the darkened great room, and finally discovered Adam stretched out on the settee. His head was pillowed in the crook of one arm, an open book lay face down upon his chest. Jamie hesitated, surprised. Adam usually went back to his own place at night—after he'd come home from Australia, he'd said he needed somewhere that was his own, and a little one-room cabin about half an hour's ride from the main house seemed to suit everybody. The pattering against the glass, though, reminded Jamie that it had been raining since dinnertime. Couldn't blame his older brother (and it was still a little weird to think of Adam, almost a stranger, as his brother) for not wanting to get wet. Adam had a room upstairs for times like this, though, so he must have just fallen asleep reading …

"You going to stand there all night?"

Jamie yelped, staggered off the step, and grabbed at the railing to keep from crashing into the blue chair or the rifle case. Adam rose quickly, setting his book aside.

"Sorry." His voice was pitched low, though Jamie had already made plenty enough noise to wake any light sleepers in the house. No new sounds drifted from upstairs, though. Jamie was glad. The last thing he wanted right now was for Pa—Mr. Cartwright—to be asking why he was still up. "Are you all right?" Jamie straightened, nodding, and Adam chuckled softly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I thought you were asleep."

"I heard you come down the stairs."

"Oh." Jamie sighed. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Adam lifted a curious eyebrow, barely visible in the dim glow of the banked fire. "What are you doing up this late?" He stepped closer. "Does your head still hurt?"

"What? Oh … no, it's okay. I mean … it still hurts a little, but it ain't too bad." He always seemed to start stuttering all over the place when he tried to talk to Adam, and he hated it. The man was so smart, though, and so composed that he always made Jamie feel a little put on the spot. "I couldn't sleep, though, so I wanted … I thought I'd get a drink. You know," he added lamely, "in the kitchen."

He sounded like an idiot.

It was the middle of the night, he was exhausted, his head really did hurt, and he ached deep down inside at his core. He didn't care.

Adam was silent for a moment, then offered, "I think there are a few sugar cookies left." The deep voice was strangely wistful. "Without Hoss here, they don't go as … Well." Okay. Not so strange. Jamie wasn't the only one missing somebody. Adam stepped back, his voice suddenly brisk. "That and a mug of warm milk sounds pretty good right about now."

"Yeah." Jamie offered a tentative grin. "I could go for that."

Adam's hand landed companionably on his boney shoulder. "I bet you could."

He steered Jamie gently toward the kitchen, placing one finger over grinning lips as they passed Hop Sing's door. Jamie's return smile felt hollow, but even so, it was the first he'd managed in hours. He claimed a stool by the center island as Adam fiddled with a lantern, lighting it and placing it on the well-scrubbed surface. For an instant the dark eyes rested on him, and Jamie had a sudden feeling that something showed in his face he didn't intend his brother to see. Then Adam's gaze moved on, and Jamie wondered if he'd been imagining things. Still, as Adam went to light the stove and place a pot on top, Jamie scrubbed frantically at his cheeks—just in case red eyes or an errant tear stain was still visible.

He didn't want to talk about it, and he didn't intend on giving himself away.

Adam retrieved the milk in silence and poured enough for two, then straddled another stool as they waited for the drink to heat. The lantern was low, and the warmth from the stove stole through the small space, and the silence was comfortable and … sleepy. Slow minutes and deep night wrapped around them, lulling him where all the hours lying in bed had not. Jamie jerked awake as Adam rose to remove the pot from the heat and pour the warm, frothy milk into two mugs. He managed another rueful smile as milk and a sugar cookie appeared on the counter before him.

The cookie was large and soft, and the milk was just right, and Jamie spoke without meaning to.

"My pa died today. Well, tomorrow really."

The sleepy, contented feeling vanished. Adam blinked, chewed slowly, swallowed, took a drink from his own mug, and finally said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yeah." Why had he said it? Now the moment was ruined. Jamie tried to hurry past. "Nobody does, I haven't ever … said anything." Adam didn't respond, but the pressure of his heavy gaze was enough to keep Jamie babbling. "I mean … I've got a new family now, right? It would be weird for everybody to know how much I …" He trailed off, confusion and a strange sense of disloyalty—to both of his families—overtaking him.

Sometimes he wasn't sure what he should feel.

Of course, right now he felt nothing but embarrassed. Adam was part of that new family—although that seemed different somehow. They'd only just met five or six months ago.

The silence was awkward now, and Jamie searched frantically for something to say that would—

"I used to worry about what would happen if Pa died or was hurt out on the trail."

Jamie's roving gaze jerked back. He knew that Adam had grown up in a wagon too, and that like Jamie his pa—Ben, Mr. Cartwright—had for a time been his only family and his whole world. Sometimes Jamie thought it might be nice to talk with Adam about those times … but Adam wasn't somebody you just asked about things. Not things like that, anyway.

"You … did?"

Adam's admission was both a surprise and a relief. Being left alone was a possibility Jamie had worried about constantly, especially in those last years. Pa hadn't been well for quite some time, and then there was always the chance that some angry crowd would … Jamie shied away from that thought, from memories of yelling and pelting stones and hot tar.

Anyway, it was nice to know he wasn't the only one.

"Not so much before Inger." Adam shrugged, bringing the mug to his lips for a slow swallow. Jamie had the distinct impression that his brother was using the drink to space his words. Maybe even his thoughts. "I was still too young then to put it all together, for the most part—though I think I was getting there. I'd seen death, of course, but I didn't even remember my own mother, and I hadn't seen anyone's else's ma or pa die. At least, not anyone I really understood as a mother or father." He sighed. "After Inger, though … Another boy had died on the trail not too may weeks before, and then her, and ... there was just a point a few months later when I remember sitting by the fire and holding Hoss and really realizing that it could happen to anybody, at any time." He lifted one dark brow, staring into his mug. "It could happen to Pa, and then I'd be alone with a baby brother and no idea what to do."

Jamie shuddered. He'd worried enough for just himself, he couldn't even imagine what it might have been like to have a brother or sister to worry about too.

"I didn't say anything to Pa," Adam continued. "I wanted him to know he didn't have to worry about me. That he could depend on me." One tiny corner of his mouth quirked up. "He kept a pretty good eye on us, though. It wasn't too long before he was after me to tell him what was going on, and I couldn't hold out against that." He shrugged. "I didn't really want to, I guess."

"What did he …" Jamie looked down, tracing a circle on the counter. "What did he say?"

His own pa, filled with an eternal optimism that Jamie had never seen (before or after) in any other person, had … well, not brushed off Jamie's worries, but had always been quick to assure the boy that no matter how bad things got, everything would be all right in the end. A younger Jamie had believed him and been comforted, but as Jamie got older, as he watched his pa fade beneath illness and scorn …

He was curious how his new pa had responded to the same question.

Adam studied the delicate china, eyes lost in memory. "He told me that he didn't plan on leaving me or Hoss for many, many years, but that sometimes things don't work out like we plan." He pulled a wry face. "I knew that, of course. But then he reassured me that there were plenty of people who would be happy to take care of me and Hoss, relatives and friends and a couple of the families in the train with us right then, even. I knew a lot of the names, and it made me feel a little better. Pa said he'd talked with people after Inger died, and written down instructions in case something did happen, and that I didn't have to be the one to worry about taking care of either myself or my little brother."

Jamie nodded, grinning faintly. "Yeah, that sounds like Pa."

Adam's gaze remained fixed in the past. "I told him that I would miss him, though, and I didn't want anybody else taking care of us because it wouldn't be the same."

It was true. It was true, and that was what he didn't want any of them to know …

He must have moved, or made some sound despite his best efforts, because Adam's eyes flickered up. "He told me that it if anything happened to him it was all right for me to be sad—that he hoped I would miss him at least some—but that I had to pick something funny about him and remember it too. That I couldn't just be sad."

A dozen memories of good times and laughter hit Jamie without warning. His pa had thought laughter was the cure to all ills …

"And as soon as he said it, all I could think about was the first time Hoss had a really bad diaper after Inger died." Adam shook his head, rose, and strolled back to the cookie jar. "Pa went to change it, and it … well, it reeked, and he pinned everything back up and told me we were going down to the stream because he didn't want the wagon smelling like that while we were trying to sleep." Adam handed another cookie to Jamie and resettled. "So he took Hoss, and I brought the pins and the new diaper and … whatever else, and we went down to the stream. Pa took off the diaper, and we both almost passed out from the smell, and then we saw that Hoss wasn't even done yet." Jamie choked down a giggle, remembering at the last minute Hop Sing was sleeping next door. "Pa was holding him out over the water, and I was holding my nose, and Hoss was kicking around like it was some great game … and Pa and I just looked at each other and at Hoss and started laughing and couldn't stop." He shook his head. "We hadn't really laughed since Inger died, and I think it had just all built up to that point."

"What happened?" Jamie giggled, wiping at his eyes.

Adam chuckled. "Oh, one of the women came down to rescue us. It took me and Pa hours to go to sleep that night, though. Every time one of us would start to drift off the other would start laughing again. Hoss was out right away, the little stinker." He sighed. "When Pa said to think of something funny, I knew right away that would be it." Adam grinned, shaking his head. "It's still clear as crystal in my mind, even now."

"We got stuck in a ditch one time." Jamie spoke before he could change his mind. Adam's words had called forth a flood of memories, and it seemed only right to share. "We were leaving this town in California, and things had gone good. It'd been raining for two days straight." He cast a defensive glance toward Adam, daring the other to argue. His brother only stuffed half a cookie into his mouth and settled back on his stool. Pacified, Jamie continued. "It shouldn't have been any big deal, but every time we tried to get out something went wrong. The horse was scared of a rock in front of him and wouldn't pull that way—we never did guess what he thought it was, but we kept comin' up with idea for the next week. When we tried to get him to back up instead, the rear wheels stuck. Almost tipped the whole thing, and half of our stuff ended up out the back in the mud. Pa got down and tried to guide the wheels, but he slipped and went down. I went to help him, and slipped too. We were both covered in mud from head to toe, and our wagon was stuck in a ditch that wasn't any deeper than my knees, and the horse was still actin' real funny about that rock, and Pa just looked at me and said," Jamie pitched his voice deeper, "'Jamie lad, there's a dark side to this rainmaking lark'."

Adam's rich chuckle joined his own giggle, and a moment later Hop Sing's door yanked open. The cook's head appeared, hair frazzled and nightcap askew. "It middle of night, some people trying to sleep around here! You clean Hop Sing's kitchen before morning!" The door slammed shut again before either could respond. Jamie clapped his hand over his mouth, stifling a snort. Adam turned back to him, grinning wide enough that his dimple appeared.

His older brother. It … didn't seem so strange, now.

Adam rose smoothly, wiping crumbs from the counter into one hand. Jamie slid off his stool and gathered the mugs for washing.

"You said it would be strange for everyone to know, but no one wants you to forget him." Jamie froze, as Adam's voice spoke from directly behind. "No one here needs you to do that in order to feel secure about our family as it is now. We've all lost people, we know that doesn't just go away in a week or a month or a year. We know how important it is to build a new family and remember the old." One hand landed on Jamie's shoulder. "Joe's mother taught me that, once I let her." A breath of a chuckle. "I wonder sometimes why we always make it so hard for ourselves."

Jamie hung his head for a long moment, fighting back tears for an entirely different reason. Adam waited patiently, his grip warm and heavy. Finally, Jamie managed a nod.

"Thanks."

Adam squeezed once before releasing him. "Any time."

Jamie looked around quickly, but Adam was already pouring water to heat for washing.

"Uh …" They were apparently done, and he was good with that. "Wash or dry?"

"Wash."

"Good. I'd … well, I'd always rather dry."

"I think I knew that about you."

Adam grinned, and Jamie grinned back. Then he went for another cookie while they waited for the wash water to warm.


End file.
